Strumpet City by James Plunkett Read Free Book Online

strict accuracy. ‘Well, the son of an Irishman—an Irish bandsman.’
    When he died he was Sir Arthur Sullivan. Mrs. Bradshaw said she thought it wonderful that a humble youth should reach such heights.
    ‘He had the divine gift,’ Mr. Yearling pronounced solemnly. ‘The gift of music. What are we others, after all, but penpushers. Directors, property owners, public servants, nothing but glorified nonentities. One of us dies and the world is still the same. Sullivan dies—and the world is the poorer until God permits another genius to come and walk among us.’
    This time he helped himself to the whiskey decanter uninvited and poured a large measure.
    ‘The song,’ Mr. Bradshaw said, uneasily.
    Mr. Yearling suggested the introduction to the second act which contained a sombre opening for the ’cello, but little else that the company could manage satisfactorily, because of the disposition of the voices and the fact that it required a chorus too. Father O’Connor came out best, with a moving interpretation of ‘Is Life a Boon?’ Mr. Bradshaw remained silent but Mr. Yearling supplied an obbligato on the ’cello. Then Mrs. Bradshaw, knowing how much her husband enjoyed singing and not wishing him to feel neglected, closed the score and produced a volume of Moore’s melodies which contained duets which occupied everybody, the priest and Mr. Bradshaw on the voice parts, accompanied by piano and Mr. Yearling’s clever ’cello improvisations. Then she asked if it was time for soup. The men searched for their watches. As Father O’Connor produced his, Mr. Bradshaw thought he heard something fall.
    ‘Have you dropped something, Father?’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Father O’Connor replied. They scanned the carpet mutually but could see nothing. Mrs. Bradshaw rang and Mary served them with soup. They sat around, informally conversing.
    ‘Your “Is Life a Boon?” revived some happy memories for me tonight, Father,’ Mr. Yearling said sadly. They looked at him with polite interest.
    ‘I was at one of the first performances of The Yeomen in the Savoy. George Grossmith sang Jack Point and Courtice Pounds was Fairfax. That was nearly twenty years ago.’
    ‘Is it so long?’ Mr. Bradshaw said.
    ‘It is, Ralph, October 1888. I was a young dog on my first visit to London. Wonderful. And a pretty girl with me too.’ He turned particularly to Father O’Connor. ‘All very correct and everything in order, Father, no wild oats or that sort of thing.’
    ‘Of course,’ Father O’Connor said quickly, but modulating his tone to convey a reminder of Mrs. Bradshaw’s presence.
    ‘Truth is, I was madly in love with her.’
    ‘But you didn’t marry her?’ Mrs. Bradshaw asked, allowing herself to betray a woman’s curiosity.
    ‘She wouldn’t have me, ma’am,’ Mr. Yearling confessed. He turned to Mr. Bradshaw. ‘You know, Ralph, we Irish chaps don’t stand much chance against the fellows over there. We think we have polish, poise, elegance, but in thirty minutes at the smallest social gathering the British fellow has us completely outclassed.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mr. Bradshaw protested.
    ‘It’s true, Ralph. And I’ll tell you why. Gentility, manners, social behaviour, they’re all part of a game, a sort of national game which is played to different rules in different countries. The British play their own game best because they’ve made the rules to suit the British temperament and the British climate.’
    ‘I don’t see the difference,’ Mr. Bradshaw said. He had taken up the decanter again and was handing Mr. Yearling his glass. Mr. Yearling raised it and looked around at everybody.
    ‘There’s part of the difference,’ he said sadly, indicating the golden spirit. ‘I won’t embarrass your good wife with the grisly details.’
    Mrs. Bradshaw smiled her gentle smile as he threw back his head and swallowed. She knew his weakness and could guess that it had once, perhaps, been a wildness.